Birthing Pains
by Ragnelle
Summary: He had not thought that she would look beautiful, not in the midst of labour, but she did.


**Warning** : Rated for details of childbirth.

 **Disclaimer:** All characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. This is written purely for entertainment and at no monetary gain.

 **A/N** : Inspired by the birth of my niece three years ago, and submitted to Tethio's "First meeting" challenge, where it was unplaced. I meant to revise it, and the wonderful people on **The Garden of Ithilien** have given me lots of feedback to work with, but it has been just sitting on my computer since, untouched. I post it now, still as it were written originally, in celebration of my nephew's birth today. I may revise it at a later date.

And thanks to **MagpieTales** who caught a mistake for me. It has been fixed.

(The lack of quotation-marks is a deliberate choice).

* * *

 **Birthing pains.**

He had not thought that she would look beautiful. Not like this, in the midst of labour.

But she did.

Her water broke with the day. They had been waiting for many days for a sign that the birth would begin; still, when it came he found that he was not prepared. Not really. Not for the long hours of waiting that followed, not for the crowd of women gathering. Not for how the dogs treated her with such care and protectiveness. Not for how she would pace, then lie down, and the then rise again or pace or sit. Or lean bent over a table.

The midwife would not let her sit for long, or lay on her back at all. But leaning over a low table, her stomach splaying out underneath the tabletop and her bottom sticking obscenely out behind her – that she allowed!

Decency is no concern here, the midwife had explained when he asked. If she sits for too long her labour will be slow. And lying on her back can be dangerous as well.

And it was not as if there were other men present.

He had to concede to that. He would have to concede to a lot of things before it ended, but mostly it was the waiting that he was unprepared for.

Go rest, the midwife told him near evening. The pains had begun to come more often – longer for each time and shorter between the waves – and she could no loner lie on her side lest the pain become too much. He had helped her bathe in hot water. It had helped a little, but she was getting tired, and she found no way to rest.

How can I? he answered. She cannot.

The child will not be born in many hours yet, the midwife answered. She needs you rested by the end. _Since you insisted you be here._ The last hung unspoken between them. If you had been any other man…

I am not.

I know, lord: she insisted.

The midwife gave no other concession to his status. It was clear that she would have thrown him out had not his wife wanted him there.

He rested for a few hours, but woke before he was called. Her pains were strong – too strong – and her distress drove him from his rest.

The midwife had him help with another bath. It helped, if only for a short time. But then the midwife stuck her finger into her! None had told him that would happen, but the women made no fuss and so he held his tongue.

 _She_ was pale with pain, and haggard with exhaustion.

My legs are so tired, she whispered. She was standing upright, clinging to him. He tried to support her, but all he could do was to hold her in his arms and comfort her.

Hush, beloved, he whispered back. You are doing so well. But he did not believe his own words.

This was how he had feared she would look: Exhausted. Drawn. She whimpered when the next cramp hit, and all he could do was to whisper her nonsense.

All is well, he comforted. All will be well.

Try to lie down on your side, he said when it had passed. Just for a little, to rest your legs.

She nodded, though he could see she feared it.

She was right to fear it; even he could see the pain was worse.

I can't, she said. Her voice was small, hushed by shallow breaths. Help me up!

Try a little more, he said. You need the rest.

No!

There were tears in her eyes. Her face was white. Not as the poets describe, but really white. Or perhaps like they did, and he had just not known – despite his years – that skin could turn that white.

I can't do this. Not this way.

He took her hand and dragged her up and off their bed. The midwife ordered the women around, but he just held her and whispered comforting nonsense in her ear.

Come here with her, the midwife ordered. We are ready.

The women had gathered pillows and blankets and arranged them on the side and on the floor beside the bed. Now they helped her kneel and lean on it, resting her body as best she could, if not her legs.

How many hours went like this he did not know. The midwife showed him how to help her breath through the waves of pain, breathing with her. When that did not help, he tried to help her any way he could think.

The pain he had expected, but not the way she would transform into some animal thing, refusing his touch. An animal, focusing on her body and the work she must get done; there was no room for him and she was shutting him out.

In one of the short breaks he waved one of the women – he did not see whom – over to take his place. He turned to the midwife.

What can I give her to ease the pain?

Nothing, she said. She must endure. Raspberry leaf might help the labour, but this late it will likely not do much.

Raspberry leaf will not help for these pains!

Anything stronger might slow the labour, and she will have to endure for longer. And it might hurt the child.

She regarded him standing there: unable to help while behind him his wife breathed thought another wave of pain. _She_ made a low, keening sound and he flinched at it.

 _Tell me there is something I can do!_

You have healing hands, she said at length. Let us put them to use. She brought him back to the bed, took his hand and made him kneel beside _her_.

Here, and here. She placed his hands on his wife's back. Low, like this, and give a gentle pressure.

He nodded.

Rest when you need, it will be hours still.

Do not say that! _she_ moaned, and he realised that she could hear them, better than he had thought.

Shh, beloved. My fair one; it will be well.

He rubbed her back, but she shook her head.

Just hold. Further down… yes: there!

And he held his hands gently against the small of her back, closed his eyes and willed his healing powers to flow through his hands, into her. It seemed to him that his powers were not enough, but she sighed, and calmed a little.

He knew then he would not leave her. Not as long as he could stand; and he was strong. Strong and hardy – more hardy than any of his men.

The midwife spoke to the women:

Try to make her drink more; the honeyed water would be best, but even clean water will ease the cramps a little.

He heard her words at the back of his mind, and noted that the midwife was good.

The night continued the same way. His knees ached from kneeling, and his back from bending to reach her. His legs grew tired and sore, but he would not move. Only when they helped her up so she could relive herself, did he too get some reprieve. And when she returned, back he went.

Morning came. He knew it by the light of dawn falling on the floor, but at the rising of the sun, no child had come.

Rest a little.

The midwife's hand upon his hand roused him, and he looked up.

It will not be long, but you should rest a little before that, lord. I will wake you – or one of the women – when it is time. You will be more needed then.

He shook his head. He could feel his eyes drop; he was on the brink of falling asleep where he knelt, but how could he sleep when she could not?

You have eased her well, lord; she can rest a little between the pains now. We all have rested in turns through the night, but you have stayed awake long now. The child is likely still hours to come; do you wish to miss its birth because you are too tired to stay awake?

If she can, so can I.

Her body is made for this, the midwife answered. I have seen it in every birth that goes well: the child, somehow, gives the mother strength. And all is well with your wife, and as it should be. But you and I, my lord, have no child to give our bodies strength.

He did not answer. He turned back to his task, stubbornly. He midwife said no more, and the room was quiet. His mind wandered at the edge of light, and his eyes feel shut. His head dropped.

He startled, catching himself before he fell.

The midwife did not need to say a word. He let himself be led away, to rest in a corner. He would _not_ leave, and was not asked to. The women had laid out blankets and pillows on the floor, and he was used to roots and rock, was he not?

His sleep was light. He hovered on the edge of dreams while still he heard the noises of the room, and the singing of the birds outside, greeting dawn. Even before the midwife called, he was up. He heard her distress grow greater once again, and he could rest no more. The midwife did not try to talk him back to rest, and the women moved to give him space.

Soon after, the midwife made her lie upon her back and spread her legs.

Should I be here?

There is nothing here you have not seen before, my lord, the midwife answered. And her chemise will cover most. Stay, and help support her leg.

And he did. And tried not to look when the midwife stuck her fingers in for the second time.

I can feel the head, and you are almost fully open, my lady. When next you feel the wave, take a deep breath, hold, and push down for as long as you can. Hold under your knees with your hands – like so – and pull towards you while you push. I will try to help the head slip around the least, small, ridge. It will hasten the birth.

She nodded, and he had no time to object. She breathed in and held her breath, and pushed until her face was red with effort. He had not known that faces could turn that colour. Not even in battle had he seen a face this red; deep and not unlike the flowers that grows on the fields of battle.

Well done! the midwife called, drawing him back from his thoughts. One more, just like you did just now.

It was twice, not just once, more she pushed until the midwife said: I think that did it! and then she lay exhausted through the next wave. But the midwife did not let her rest for long.

It will be better for you to squat now, like I showed you before. Stand while you wait for the wave, then breathe, hold, squat and bear down. Push for as long as you can; we will help you stand before the next.

They helped her from the bed, and the midwife showed him how to hold her hands to support her.

It will help her if she can lean back into the squat, the midwife explained. You must brace against her weight so that she does not fall.

Old woman, this I know. Do you think me too weak to hold my own wife?

No, lord. But she is heavy with the child.

He let it pass; the midwife would soon see her error.

She was not much heavier than he had though; supporting her posed far less trouble than anything he had encountered so far: this he could do. He could use his strength to help her. But he had not expected the look on her face.

She was beautiful.

Her face was red, her hair wild and unkempt, her dress stained with her water and she had not truly slept since it broke more than a day and a night ago. But grunting and pushing, she looked strong. And beautiful beyond even that first day he laid eyes on her and knew her loved her. He had not expected that she would be beautiful, but she was.

I think I shat.

That is normal. I laid out some old cloth; it will be easy to clean up. Let me just clean you before the next one, and do not worry. We will take care of it.

And even through all that, she was beautiful.

Her mind turned inwards, to the task to be done, and he turned his to hers, and he marvelled at the strength and beauty. And later too, when the midwife had him kneel behind her, to support her while she leaned on him; when she cut open her dress and exposed her breasts, her thighs, her everything; when she was pushing and moaning, muttering: it burns, and the midwife encouraged her on, all he saw was her beauty and her strength. And he was awed.

The head, the midwife said. I see the head: your child is coming.

She cried and laughed and moaned. It is too much. I cannot; it burns. I …

And the midwife took her hand, and his, and had them feel between her legs. He felt a soft, strange thing, like guts fresh from a kill.

That is the head.

The midwife's words did not make it less of a thing to him. It did not feel like a head at all. But _she_ laughed to feel it, and there! there was that beauty and that strength again.

She made much less sound that he had heard from other women's houses, but she pushed. She pushed and the sound of crying filled the room, greeting the world for the first time.

She pushed, and – quick after all the long hours of labour – the child slipped out.

She fell back against him, and the midwife placed the child right up on her breast. Dark hair, wet with blood. Blood on the skin, and the cord trailing down, still connected to the afterbirth inside her.

It is a boy, my lord. You have an heir.

She laughed, and he laughed with. Somehow, he found a blanket in his hand, soft and fine and warm, he covered his son with it, and _he_ blinked against the unknown light. He laughed again.

"Welcome to the world, little Aragorn."


End file.
